


It Begins With A Crossword

by ladypigswagon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sex, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1784767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the first lacrosse practice of the season but Coach refuses to cancel because of a little rain. A little rain turns into a lot of rain very quickly but Coach yells that the first person to complain will be doing suicide runs until Christmas. Stiles has never been so damp in his life and that includes the time he held a paralyzed Derek in the pool for several hours. At least the pool was clean water. Stiles is 90% sure that there is mud in his underwear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Begins With A Crossword

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> I wrote this for Nezstorm because Mar deserves so much for all the fics and prompts and basically everything. Mar encouraged me to write Steter because a) frankly there should be more b) Mar is a fantastic writer and deserves gifts c) Peter Hale is one sexy motherfucker and the sexiest of the Hales. This is my second time writing smut so please be gentle.

It’s the first lacrosse practice of the season but Coach refuses to cancel because of a little rain. A little rain turns into a lot of rain very quickly but Coach yells that the first person to complain will be doing suicide runs until Christmas. Stiles has never been so damp in his life and that includes the time he held a paralyzed Derek in the pool for several hours. At least the pool was clean water. Stiles is 90% sure that there is mud in his underwear. 

Scott smirks as Stiles peels wet clothing from his body. Scott then shakes his head like a dog, sending water droplets everywhere much to Stiles’ displeasure. 

“Dude are you serious?” Stiles asks. Scott’s smirk widens and he manages to look like an adorable puppy caught doing something it shouldn’t have been doing. Stiles raises an eyebrow and continues to strip. When he finally gets to his underwear, his mud theory is confirmed and it’s the grossest thing he’s ever felt. It’s squelchy and that is not a quality he aspired to have in underwear. These are his favorite hulk boxers for crying out loud. Unfortunately the showers are being repaired so Stiles and the rest of the team has to towel down and go home feeling gross. Stiles feels particularly disgusting putting jeans on over the mud boxers but he has no choice. 

“How are you not muddy?” Stiles grumbles, eyeing Scott and Isaac angrily as they make their way to Scott’s motorbike. Isaac smiles smugly while Scott shrugs. The rain has stopped momentarily but black clouds are rolling in on the horizon. Black, angry clouds that are defiantly going to rain all over Stiles because his Jeep is being repaired since it’s last encounter with a supernatural creature. The mechanic had looked skeptical when Stiles said he’d hit a fox. Probably because foxes usually didn’t dent the wheel arches but there we go. Saying ‘Sorry I hit a angry chupacabra because it was trying to eat my Alpha’s face’ would probably not gone down well. 

Stiles waves goodbye to Isaac and Scott and heads off home. With every step he takes, his boxers squelch unpleasantly. Stiles wants to punch something. 

He’s barely made it a mile before the rain begins. It’s painful and heavy. Every single droplet is like a bullet. Stiles shivers as the droplets find the gap between his neck and hoodie. They trickle down his spine slowly. His day cannot get any worse. Eventually it becomes too much and Stiles ducks into a Starbucks to avoid his head being caved in by vicious water. 

The Starbucks is warm and cozy and practically full to the brim with people. The smell of coffee hangs in the air and Stiles breathes it in. Warmth tickles his skin, dances along the damp fabric. Stiles thanks God and also Jesus for the fact that he has enough money to buy a large mocha. All that remains is to find a seat. It’s a gargantuan task as every available space is crammed with people. Mostly students who’ve spread out work over several tables. One particularly rowdy bunch are arguing about how a transformer works. Stiles is pretty sure one of the group says ‘It’s a truck then it’s a robot.’ Stiles is worried he’ll have to stand when he spots a familiar head. Or a familiar back of head. A familiar back of head sitting at a table with an extra chair. An extra chair that is currently being used to hold a briefcase and a coat. Stiles weighs the options and decides fuck it. He is cold and wet and wants to sit down.

“Peter move your crap and let me sit,” Stiles says. Peter lowers his paper, raises an eyebrow and does that lip curl thing that is oddly sexy but really shouldn’t be.

“Hello Stiles,” Peter purrs. His voice is like velvet. 

“Come on Peter,” Stiles whines. He can’t pull a puppy face like Scott and frankly refuses to. Scott has the adorable puppy look down pat. 

“Say the magic word,” Peter says, eyes glinting with mischief and malice. Stiles wants to spike his coffee with wolfsbane. 

“Please,” Stiles says through gritted teeth. Peter grins. He looks like a predator, which is a reflection of his personality. Stiles is pretty much immune to Peter by now. Setting the guy on fire truly removes the fear factor. Peter removes his coat, folding it over the back of his own chair and deposits the briefcase on the floor. Stiles places his coffee down gently before slumping into the seat. His bag lands on the floor with a splat. Peter returns to his paper, ignoring Stiles, which suits Stiles just fine. 

Stiles sips his coffee before pulling out an overdue English essay. In fairness, his last English teacher was a raging psycho with serious emotional issues so Stiles feels less than happy about the subject as a whole. He likes Shakespeare; the plays are witty and politically observant. He just hates writing in depth essays about them. Plus Othello really was stupid to trust Iago and not his wife. Like who trusts a manipulative dick like that. Stiles realizes the irony as he’s sitting next to Peter but still. 

“I always liked Iago,” Peter says. He’s folded one leg over the other and is using it as a makeshift table while he does the crossword.

“You would,” Stiles replies, a tiny bit of venom lacing the words. Peter chuckles softly.

“The character is interesting and helps the plot to develop,” Peter says, “He adds depth to the play and demonstrates how characters interact with the audience. He speaks directly to them on several occasions. Theatre today rarely breaks the fourth wall.” 

Stiles considers this. It’s not a invalid argument. Though Stiles loathes to admit it, Peter is actually intelligent. Peter wields an incredible amount of knowledge and it’s a good thing that he’s kind of on their side. Kind of meaning when it suits Peter’s needs. 

Peter is sucking on his pen like it’s a lollipop. It’s very distracting and perhaps a tiny bit sexy. Stiles looks at his nearly completed essay, hoping that if he ignores the issue it will go away. Stiles doesn’t lie to himself, he does find Peter attractive. It’s the attitude and the V-necks and that little lip curl and the big blue eyes and the sarcasm and the knowledge. However Stiles remembers all too well the feeling of Peter’s claws under his chin; the feeling of Peter’s breath on his ear as Peter explains what Stiles is going to do to help his friends; the feeling of Peter’s lips on his wrist; the feeling of fangs against his skin. Peter is not to be trusted. Period. 

Stiles finishes his coffee and essay. He looks up at the wide window and groans. It’s still raining. Lighting flashes and thunder roars. 

“Looks like you’ll have to suffer my company a little longer,” Peter says, oozing smugness. 

“You suck,” Stiles says, shoving his essay into his bag.

“Not for free,” Peter retorts, reclaiming the space on the table. Stiles snorts.

“You’re more pimp than prostitute,” Stiles says. He immediately regrets it because he has the mental image of Peter in a fake fur coat and fedora. It’s nasty. Peter chuckles again. Stiles feels like he’s just amusement for Peter, nothing more than a court jester. 

“I don’t think I’d ever chose pimp as a profession,” Peter says conversationally, filling in the boxes of eight across, “It’s a rather sleazy business.”

“You are sleazy,” Stiles says, “You have the whole mafia vibe going on. In an alternate universe you probably are a mafia boss.” Peter looks up from the crossword, considering what Stiles has said. Peter’s eyes are really blue. Like really, really blue. They’re the color of ocean after a storm.

“Thank you Stiles,” Peter says causing Stiles to realize he has just said all of that out loud. He wants to die, right here, right now. Peter is never going to let him forget it. It will be torture from here on in. 

“Red suits you,” Peter observes, casually filling in seven down. Stiles is the color of strawberries and wants to die even more. Let him be struck down by lightening. Lightening flashes outside, almost like a warning. 

“I take back what I said,” Stiles snaps, “Your eyes are the color of despair and sadness.” Peter gives Stiles a look, which simply says you don’t mean that. 

“If it helps,” Peter says, “ I like your eyes too. Sometimes they’re the color of whiskey, in the right light.” Stiles’ jaw drops. He can’t remember if Peter has ever paid him a compliment. Beyond the ‘I like you Stiles’ when Peter was more of a raging psycho with a god complex. 

“Close your mouth Stiles,” Peter says; scrawling the word howl in nine down, “We are not a codfish.” Stiles’ mouth snaps shut. Then he comprehends what Peter has said.

‘You did not just quote Mary Poppins at me,” Stiles says. Peter cannot watch Disney movies. It’s impossible and frankly strange.

“I believe I did,” Peter replies. Stiles’ eyes widen because Peter is totally Scar from the Lion King, if he was any Disney villain. That’s an image that will never leave his brain. He might ask Lydia to draw it because it’s a hilarious image. 

Peter is tapping the pen against the newspaper, pondering the crossword before him. Peter confused is actually rather endearing. 

“Need help?” Stiles asks. Peter ignores him. The rain is still lashing against the windows, there’s no way in hell that Stiles is going home. He shoots a quick text off to his Dad to explain the situation. 

“What was the color of the first Girl Scout Uniform?” Peter asks. Stiles looks up. Peter is looking at him intently.

“What?” Stiles replies, rather stupidly.

“One across, what was the color of the first Girl Scout Uniform?” 

“Are you serious?”

“Stiles are you going to be helpful or not?”

“Blue,” Stiles says tapping out a message to Scott, telling him that Peter is not as omnipotent as he thinks. 

“Thank you,” Peter says, filling in the boxes. The rain appears to be letting up but Stiles isn’t going to risk it. Peter puts the crossword into the briefcase and stands. “Well this is all very pleasant but I must dash. Things to do.”

“People to manipulate, plots to form,” Stiles replies. Peter laughs. 

“Goodbye Stiles.” Stiles will deny it under pain of death, but he does watch Peter’s ass as he leaves.

 

A few days later, the weather vastly improved, Stiles returns to the Starbucks after school. What can he say they make a mean mocha. He’s only mildly surprised that Peter is there, doing another crossword. There are plenty of free tables. Stiles could sit alone and finish his chemistry homework. But he doesn’t He sits with Peter. This time there’s silence between them. They work peacefully together. 

The event repeats itself. Each day they sit together. Peter does a crossword. Stiles does his homework. They occasionally help each other out. Peter struggles with pop culture references from the past six years. Stiles struggles with algebra. Sometimes they have a proper conversation. Peter talks about the fire. Stiles talks about his Mom. They discuss everything and anything, trading barbs and insults as well as compliments and kind words. It’s a give and take. Neither of them mention it at pack meetings. Neither acknowledges that they’re slowly becoming friends. 

Soon they’re hanging out in other places. They migrate from the coffee shop to a local bookshop. Stiles recommends literature that Peter has missed. Peter directs Stiles to ancient texts that will help him with his studies. Stiles fills the gaps in Peters pop culture knowledge while Peter fills the gaps in Stiles’ supernatural knowledge. The pack fights off supernatural enemies and grows stronger. The bond between Peter and Stiles grows stronger. They research together, left out of the fighting because Stiles isn’t really a fighter and nobody trusts Peter not to stab them in the back. 

Derek’s loft becomes another hangout during epic supernatural battles. They watch movies that Peter has missed. Marvel are particular favorites. Peter has a fondness for The Avengers though he would never say it out loud. Stiles’ gets caught up explaining fan theories and head-canons and linking the movies together. Peter remains quiet during these times, watching Stiles with unnaturally blue eyes and smiling occasionally. Real smiles not smug smirks. It’s strange. 

It’s a typical Friday afternoon in Derek’s loft. Research, strategic planning and then watch as the pack runs off to defeat whatever supernatural entity has stumbled into Beacon Hills. Stiles is leaning over Derek’s TV, trying to work out how Derek managed to damage it. Seriously, leave the guy alone for ten seconds and something’s broken. Derek somehow has managed to disconnect the DVD player and the jumble of wires at the back is a tangled web of disaster. Stiles is so engrossed with the task that he doesn’t notice Peter walking up behind him.

Peter grabs Stiles by the shoulders, spins him round and pins him against the wall. The tangled web of wires clatters to the floor. Peter is starting at Stiles with such intensity that Stiles feels he’s in danger of spontaneously combusting. Perhaps Peter is finally going to kill him. Stiles panics because who will make his Dad eat healthily if he’s not there and also how is Peter planning to get away with killing Stiles? Scott would rip Peter into tiny little pieces, burn those pieces and scatter the ashes to the wind to make sure Peter couldn’t pull a Lazarus again.

“I’m not going to kill you Stiles,” Peter says softly. Stiles gulps, painfully aware of his lack of brain-to-mouth-filter. Peter is pressing against Stiles. He’s warm but all werewolves seem to run on a higher temperature. Then Peter’s tongue is down Stiles’ throat and his brain shuts off completely. Kissing Peter is fantastic. Stiles responds eagerly, nipping Peter’s lips. Peters’ hands grip Stiles’ hips, holding him in place. Stiles grabs the back of Peters’ neck, determined to keep him in place. He doesn’t care anymore, if Peter wants him, Peter can damn well have him. Everything has lead up to this. The amount of time they’ve spent together, how brutally honest they’ve been, Stiles is surprised they didn’t start fucking earlier.

Peter starts mouthing along Stiles jaw, nipping and sucking at the tender flesh on Stiles neck. Stiles gasps and groans because fucking hell this is fucking awesome. He’s hard within minutes.

“I’m going to cover you in marks Stiles,” Peter says, his voice oddly broken but raw and sexy. “Going to make sure everyone knows that you belong to me. I’m tired of waiting around, waiting for you to realize how much I want you. You’re mine now.”

“I don’t fucking ah…” Stiles gasps, “belong to you.” Peter laughs, grabbing Stiles ass firmly. 

“You do now,” Peter growls in Stiles’ ear. Peter slips his hand into Stiles jeans, into his boxers. His touch is delicate, teasing. Infuriating. 

“Please Peter,” Stiles groans. Peter kisses Stiles’ temple gently. The touches are so teasing. Stiles is bucking up, desperate for friction. “I’m yours, I’m fucking yours. Please Peter. Please. Please. Please.” Stiles words are garbled, slurring together. However Peter obliges, gripping Stiles’ dick and pumping roughly. Stiles doesn’t last long. His boxers are sticky. Peter removes his hand; licks cum off of his appendages like a porn star. Stiles watches, eyes wide, pupils blown with lust. He’s in danger of getting hard again. 

“Come along Stiles,” Peter says, “I’m not going to be satisfied until I’ve fucked you so hard, you can’t walk for a week.” Peter saunters away and Stiles follows eagerly. It’s stupid and reckless and fucking insane but Stiles doesn’t care. He’s going to give it as good as he’s got. Take what he can, give nothing back. Because after everything, Stiles deserves this. 

Peter leads Stiles up to Isaac’s old room. It pretty empty, save for a bed and closet. Stiles is barely through the door before Peter is crowding him against the wall, biting, licking, sucking. It’s like Peter just can’t get enough of Stiles. Peter can’t stop kissing him, nuzzling his skin, marking him and claiming Stiles as his. Buttons fly everywhere as Peter rips Stiles’ shirt off, discarding it over his shoulder.

“Dude,” Stiles moans, “That’s a decent shirt.” Peter growls and palms Stiles’ cock. Stiles bucks up, desperate for friction. Peter backs off briefly to remove his V-neck. It’s off and then Peter is pulling Stiles over to the bed. Stiles falls onto the soft mattress and before he can get his bearings, Peter is on top of him, pinning his hands to the bed. Peter mouths at Stiles’ jaw.

“Jeans off,” Peter demands. He’s clawing at Stiles’ jeans as if they mortally offend him. Stiles lifts up and Peter pull both the jeans and Stiles’ boxers off in one fluid movement before shucking his own. They’re naked now, Stiles can fully feel the heat coming from Peters’ body. He doesn’t have time to be self-conscious; Peter is already marking Stiles’ chest. He’s mapping out Stiles’ body, determined to learn all its little secrets. Peter traces scars with his fingers, kisses freckles and contributes a few of his own marks. 

Peter returns to Stiles lips, kissing him softly and slowly. He briefly touches Stiles entrance, rubs gently. Stiles can’t stand the teasing.

“Do it, just do it, please Peter,” Stiles says. Peter laughs, sinking a finger into Stiles. Stiles gasps. It’s strange but amazing. A second finger has Stiles panting, pressing his forehead against Peters’. Stiles is too caught up in the sensation to register that Peter has added a third finger and lube. Stiles feels stretched but it’s not enough, it’s never going to be enough. “Need,” Stiles gasps, “need.”

“What do you need Stiles?” Peter asks, still managed to sound composed despite the fact he’s fucking Stiles with his fingers.

“You,” Stiles says, breathing heavily, “Now please.”

“I love it when you beg,” Peter says, removing the fingers and lining his cock up with Stiles entrance. “You’re so beautiful when you beg.” Peter pushes inside Stiles. It’s painfully slow but Stiles feels so full. It’s perfect and imperfect. Peter starts to thrust. Stiles starts to keen.

“Faster,” Stiles says, “come on Peter, make me yours.” Peter growls. Stiles is starting to love that sound. Peter thrusts faster, hitting Stiles prostrate dead on every time. Stiles isn’t going to last long, feels it all over his body. Every nerve ending is on fire, he’s hypersensitive. Peter knows and uses it to his advantage. Peter grabs Stiles cock and pumps. They come together, kissing messily as they do so. 

Peter pulls out and falls next to Stiles on the bed. He pulls Stiles in close, throwing a leg over Stiles’ body. Stiles nuzzles Peter, intertwines their fingers and says:

“I’m probably going to pass out in a second and that is most definitely a compliment.” 

Peter kisses Stiles’ head as Stiles eyes close.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Peter murmurs before Stiles’ drops off in total bliss. And the best thing is Stiles knows that Peter will be there when he wakes up. And that thought makes him smile as he passes out into blissful sleep.


End file.
